Soiled

Chapter 1 - The Path

John's feet pounded upon the pock-marked concrete that lay beneath his boots, sending a blunt shock up his leg with every step. The powdering walkway stretched on into the distance, disappearing among the waste-stained greenery, or in proper terms, brownery. It was certainly daunting to travel along this path, but all other paths lead to the wilderness. 

John was adorned with simple rags, the remnants of a button-up shirt, torn at the shoulder and elbow. After wading through the oil-slicked sludge that filled every divot in the landscape, John's clothes were now coloured black. 

The sky, filled with a dull maroon cloud coverage was never seen as a threat of rain, but as one of the more dangerous aspects of living. The liquid in the puddles surrounding John was a perfect representation of what could be expected from any cloud in the sky, and was sometimes an underestimate. John's first rain-storm had left him with the rags that he wears now. 

Careful so as to not step in a pool of the thick vile juice, he leapt over a section of the concrete path that was missing a great portion of its mass. 

While the time of day was difficult to calculate, there were certain clues that told John how to respond, such as the further darkening of the sky and earth, indicating night. The lightening of the sky indicating daytime. And the hue shift of the clouds from the sickening brown-grey to the violent purple-black which screamed with the static of a thousand suns, and unleashed the pure fury of lightning. 

John stared heavy lidded at the walkway ahead of him, watching as the grass and brush zig-zagged across what was left of the path into the distance. The world around was horrifically silent, only the wind howled, and with the rare call of a wild animal becoming a legendary occurrence, there was no need to talk. 

A small sack of decomposing plastic was draped across John's back, carrying everything that was important to him. The bag was empty. The only items that he would carry was the uncommon can of tinned food, which was only rarely left with minimal rust on the interior. 

As he stepped around a rather deep hole in the footpath, the very air was acidic to the point of bitterness, if it were any more so, it would cause his eyes to water, but it was only just bearable and left a foul taste in his mouth. 

Thinking about the air around him, he absent-mindedly plunged his foot into a puddle of sludge, shooting the thick liquid up his leg and soiling his trouser leg. John sighed, silently annoyed by the tainting of his garments. 

He sat down, besides the very puddle that had interrupted his march. Without any tool to assist, he began pulling on the Trousers, one hand on the leg, just above the knee, and one hand just below the knee, the transition between ruined material and functional material. 

The fabric was weak with its years of disuse and decomposition, and with a sturdy pull, the legging tore and he was free of the wet blackened rag. The cloth was no longer usable for any purpose, as the oil and sludge soaked in by the absorbent rag, it could not be used as a bandage, and it was too weak to use as a binding. Therefore, the trouser leg was left next to the pool of rotting sludge, a testament to any other person that came across it. 

John stood up from his position, and left the miserable remnant behind, continuing on his original path...